Death's Last Run (7 page)

MARTHA

Martha allowed Fraser to hold open the door as they entered the Wall Street restaurant. The hostess led them to a table for two and left Martha and Fraser to stare across at each other. Though they'd been divorced for six years, it was still odd for Martha, seeing Fraser's pale blue eyes and knowing they weren't hers to try to look behind. Despite his tanned skin in winter, his full head of sandy hair, Fraser looked fragile. Not quite sick, but not quite healthy. Martha wanted to protect him — from what, she had no clue.

Secret Service took the closest table, which was discreetly out of earshot.

Martha had been offered the protection shortly after Sacha died, as special dispensation to see her through the nomination race — or until Sacha's case had been closed and it was clear there was no threat to Martha. She said yes, mainly to give her an extra buffer from the press. But it was almost more invasive that the men said absolutely nothing. They just watched. She couldn't even pick her nose in private.

“Sacha was having trouble, of course.” Fraser lifted his white cloth napkin and unfolded it with a flourish, like a hack magician about to pull a card from up his sleeve. “I wish I could have seen that her trouble would lead to this.”

Martha felt her hands and her teeth clench simultaneously. “You can't think Sacha's murder was her own fault.”

“I understand that you're blaming yourself. Daisy said this would happen.”

“Did she? Daisy offered you insight into how I feel about my daughter being slandered because some backwater Canadian cop can't differentiate murder from suicide?” An internal warning bell sounded, reminding Martha that ears were everywhere during an election, and disparaging rants against foreign law enforcement might not paint her in the best light.

“Daisy's a psychologist. She's trying to help.”

Daisy wasn't a psychologist; she was a student at an online university. Martha said in a lower voice, “I'm not allowing those Mounties to close Sacha's murder as suicide.”

“Well, what do you propose? You obviously can't use your influence to interfere with investigations.”

“Of course I can.” Martha wondered how she could have ever been in love with anyone so thick. She still loved him, in a stupid way. She wanted to reach across the wide table and straighten Fraser's pink silk tie. “There's no point having influence if I can't use it to protect my family.”

“You wouldn't be protecting Sacha. You'd be jeopardizing what you have for what you can't have back. Wait — tell me you haven't already taken action.” Fraser met her eye. “You have.”

Martha lifted her eyebrows.

“You want to throw away everything you've worked for?”

“Fraser, think about it. (a) The
FBI
is discreet enough to keep my involvement under the public radar. (b) If my request for help does come out, the public will forgive me — maybe even applaud me — for putting my daughter ahead of my political interests. (c) If they don't forgive me, who cares? Yes, I want to be president. But I am capable of other things. (d) Sacha was your daughter, too. You should be willing to move the earth for her, not fight me for trying.”

Fraser was quiet, maybe waiting for an E. He finally said, “Sacha wasn't my daughter.”

Martha sipped her ice water. She hoped the Pellegrino arrived soon to settle her stomach and maybe ease the dull ache that had been living at the back of her throat for the past several days. “Maybe you weren't the best father. You didn't visit her at summer camp when she would have liked that, or give her stellar report cards more than a cursory glance. But that doesn't change that you
were
her father.”

“I'm not second-guessing my parenting skills. It's a genetic impossibility. I can't have children.”

“What?” Martha felt as foggy as if she'd had three Scotches. She vaguely remembered the thought crossing her mind, when she'd found out she was pregnant, that maybe it had been the other man . . . but Fraser had been so loving — so excited to start a family — she'd successfully pushed those doubts away.

The drinks arrived. Though she was not remotely hungry, Martha asked to hear the specials and said “That sounds lovely” to one of the middle options. She was pretty sure it was a salad, but it might have been a pasta. It was something with sundried tomato, which she liked.

When the waitress left, she said to Fraser, “Maybe you can't father children now. That happens to some men as they get older. But Sacha is your daughter.”

“I'm missing the tube that releases my sperm into the world. I've been missing it since birth.”

“But . . . I remember . . .” Martha tried to think of a less than crude way to say she'd been swallowing something all those years.

“I have ejaculate. There's no sperm in it.”

“But Daisy's pregnant.”

“In vitro.” Fraser expanded his arms, as if to say,
It wasn't my choice
.

Martha wondered why this even mattered now. It wasn't like she and Fraser were going to hole up over Häagen-Dazs and grieve together. Ugh — the thought of ice cream made her stomach knot. She hoped whatever she'd ordered didn't have a cream-based sauce.

Fraser met Martha's eye. “Sacha was mine as far as anything important was concerned. I didn't change my will, she was welcome to stay in our apartment anytime. And I never said a word to her — I figured there was nothing that knowledge could help. But Daisy . . .”

“Right.” Daisy had to know, because even an idiot could understand science that far.

“Daisy thought I should tell Sacha. She thought we were living a lie.”

“Says the woman with the breast implants.”

“When we found out the in vitro had taken and Daisy was pregnant, she thought, well, she thought Sacha, not being a blood relative, should back out of our family. Let the baby be our only child.”

Martha simultaneously recoiled and felt her eyes bug forward. “What did
you
think, Fraser? Did you even have an opinion?”

The bread arrived. It looked bland and white. Fraser took a chunk and started buttering it.

“My opinion is moot now,” he said.

“Your opinion is not even remotely moot. Someone killed Sacha. Or had her killed. You ask me, Daisy is looking like a damn good suspect. Where was Daisy eleven days ago, incidentally?”

The conversation stopped while the smooth-as-silk waitress topped up Martha's mineral water. When she'd left, Fraser said, “You can't accuse my wife of murder. Not in your position.”

“Because I'm a politician, I'm supposed to not think like a mother?”

Fraser smiled. “This is why men are better suited to high-powered jobs.”

“Fraser, fuck off. Don't you care who killed Sacha?”

“Sacha killed herself. It's the most horrible thing for a mother to acknowledge, I'm sure. But wake up. She wasn't happy.”

Martha matched Fraser's passive smile and said, “Of course Sacha was happy. Off the beaten track, perhaps. But she would have found her way.”

“She was using drugs. Hard drugs and lots of them. Daisy saw when she visited.”

“Daisy visited Sacha in Whistler?” Martha stared hard, compelling Fraser's eyes to meet hers.

Fraser obliged, but with a sigh. “Yes, Daisy visited. But it was in November; not last week. They skied together.”

“Sacha snowboarded. She found skis too restrictive. Remember that trip we took to Sun Valley?” Martha felt weird, like she had a fever. Her limbs felt heavy and light all at once. Like the two balloons in the Pink Floyd song. She wanted to remember every detail from every day of Sacha's life, because maybe then she could put it back together again.

“You need to get a grip.”

Martha came back to reality with a thud. “Did Daisy say anything to Sacha about her lineage?”

“She says not.”

“Hm.” Martha would have to pay Daisy a visit. “Is she home this afternoon?”

CLARE

Clare tried for the twelfth time to get her snowboard to do what she wanted it to.

Her instructor laughed. He was probably a nice guy when he wasn't making fun of someone who couldn't understand his terrible instructions.

“Forget it.” Clare bent over, released her bindings, and stepped off the board. “I can live in Whistler without knowing how to ride this thing.”

The instructor shrugged. His name was something goofy, like Flippy or Flopper; Clare hadn't bothered to remember it. “Shredding's the crunchiest thing you'll ever do. Total body awesomeness. Like sex on shrooms. You just have to wait for it to click.”

“Oh, is that all I have to do?” Clare narrowed her eyes through her balaclava. She wanted to rip the thing off — her head was too hot; she was sweating. But that would mean taking off her helmet and rearranging, and it was annoying enough just trying to learn how to snowboard. “Aren't you supposed to be teaching me how ‘it clicks'? Or would it be easier if I just smoke a joint and try to get down the hill?”

Flipper grinned, exposing straight, white teeth that looked strange against his dry, cracked skin. “That might help, actually. I learned when I was baked. Took me one lesson and I was down.”

“Are you baked now? Because the instructions you're giving me are completely unclear.” Shit. Clare sounded like a prudish bitch.

“One more try,” said Chipster. “You're doing well, despite your defeatist attitude. Your aggression will actually work for you, if you let it.”

Clare rolled her eyes. “Didn't realize I'd signed up for Snowboarding Buddhism.” She strapped her boots back into her bindings and immediately crashed to the ground.

“Get up,” said Flooper.

Clare got up.

“Weight on your heels.”

“Duh. Or else I would have fallen again.” Clare began to slide slowly and horizontally, like Flapjack had been teaching her. She would fall again any second.

“Weight on your toes. All at once.”

Clare did what was completely counter-intuitive, and listened to Flopface. Instead of falling, though, she found that she had successfully turned and was now facing up the hill.

“Weight on your heels.” The guy could at least congratulate her.

Clare shifted her weight again and she was facing down the hill. Another successful turn.

“Great. Now keep doing that, but while you're moving down the hill. Back and forth. Like this.” Flip took off. In a ridiculously fluid movement, he made about six turns and was a fair way down the hill. He shouted up to Clare, “Your turn!”

Clare wanted to swear at him, but she reminded herself that she was Lucy — she was supposed to be making friends, not alienating them. So she did what he said. A lot less gracefully. And with three falls along the way.

When she'd caught up with him, Chiphead grinned. “You're a snowboarder, Lucy. You can work on your style, build up speed, tighten those angles. But you've got the basics down. Whistler's gonna be your town, dude.”

“Dude,” Clare said. “Are you available for another lesson, say, tomorrow?”

“Oh,” Flippy said. “She doesn't hate me anymore.”

“I know you're not full of shit now. Your lesson kind of worked.”

“Kind of, huh? Come on. We can ride the gondola up and do one run down from the top.”

Clare undid her bindings and followed Flippy Floopface to the Whistler gondola.

“Hey, Chopper,” the attendant said to her instructor, which was cool because Clare was ready to learn his real name. “Who's the chick?”

“Hey, man, this is Lucy. It's her first day on a board. She's cool.”

“Man, you're gonna love it here,” the lift attendant said. “Sorry you got stuck with Chopper, though. Sick snowboarder, but can't teach worth shit.”

“She told me already.” Chopper took Clare's board and ushered her into the moving gondola. “But if I can get her down this hill in one piece, she's gonna buy me a beer.”

“I am?” Clare said, as the gondola doors closed behind them.

“Yeah. Hey don't take this wrong, but you look just like this dead girl.”

“What?” Clare knew she looked like Sacha — same shoulder-length dark hair; same slight, wiry build.

“She died a week and a half ago. Up in the Blackcomb Glacier.”

“I'm so sorry,” Clare said.

The view behind Chopper was one of the most gorgeous sights Clare had ever seen. Whistler Village receding below them looked like a European fairytale town. Clare half expected a cobbler and some elves to run into the streets.

“Where's Blackcomb?” she asked.

Chopper pointed at the mountain beside theirs, with its own gondola that didn't go up quite as high.

“Are people avoiding the run where she died?”

Chopper shook his head. “That's the fucked-up thing, man. Everyone's all, this is so sad, let's have a candlelight vigil and cry together and shit. I mean not literally — we haven't done the candle thing — but Sacha's all anyone wants to talk about when they're drinking.”

Good to know.

“But by daylight,” Chopper said, “it's like Sacha was never even here. People are skiing and riding the glacier like it's all still fun and games.”

Clare frowned. “It's a transient town, right? Do you think people are just used to other people coming and going?”

“Yeah, but Sacha never left. This town wasn't transient for her.”

“Were you, um — I mean you and Sacha — had you dated or anything?”

Chopper looked past Clare, into the mountain behind her. “Nothing serious.”

Clare smiled sadly. Of course she'd buy Chopper a beer. This was business.